Thinking Straight (12 page)

Sweet Jesus, be with me in here. I know you love me for who I am. I know God doesn't make mistakes, and if I'm gay it's because that's what he wanted. What you wanted. And I think the challenge is to get everyone else to see that. This is
their
test, not mine. They need to learn that you love me for who I am, and they need to understand that if they're going to love me, they need to follow your example.

This can't have been your idea. You're all about connection and loving each other. This doesn't feel like love to me. I can't ask anything about anyone, can't get to know them. The only way I learn about anyone is by watching them react to this place, and I can't tell who's pretending so they won't get into trouble. But they aren't here by choice any more than I am.

Maybe there are some of them who hate it here and would talk to me about it if I could ask, if I could let them know I wouldn't rat on them. Maybe we have some things in common. I'm sure some of them are gay like me. Help them to trust me, and help me to trust them, so we can connect. So we can help each other.

God, I have so many other things to say to you. So many things to ask. But that about does it for tonight, I guess. Amen.

Once I got over the creepy feeling of being in dead Ray's bed, sleep surprised me by coming quickly. I didn't even hear Charles come in or get ready for bed or anything. For all I know, he masturbated before he fell asleep.

T
uesday began with the same piercing shriek as Monday. ADIH. Demerit. Another Day In Hell. Would I ever get used to that noise? Charles, as usual, was looking out for me.

“Remember not to talk, Taylor. Do you need any reminding about how we start our day?”

Start our day?
Where was this guy from? I shook my head.

He finished his morning prayer, grabbed his bathroom kit, and stood there waiting. For me, I supposed. But I'd showered last night. So I shook my head and pointed to the floor like I was going to stay here.

“You need to shower, Taylor.”

I tried several hand gestures (nothing obscene, though it was tempting) to let him know I didn't need to, and finally I had to resort to my pad and pen.

He glanced at my scrawled message and shook his head. “The Booklet is very clear on this. We shower every morning. It's in the section on Cleanliness.”

Now, I remembered the Cleanliness section. And yeah, it said something about a daily shower, but did it say in the morning necessarily? I glared at Charles and picked my Booklet up from my desk. And sure enough, it said “All residents are to shower each morning before breakfast.”

I scrawled again. “But I showered last night!!!”

“The Booklet says we shower in the morning. It doesn't say we can't shower at night, but it does say we shower in the morning.” And he stood there, patience incarnate, waiting.

This was not a good start to the day. Already Charles had the upper hand. And I couldn't even argue with him because I couldn't speak. Man, I came close. But then what? Was it worth getting into trouble so soon just to avoid taking a shower? Of course, lots more than that was at stake, really, in this battle of wills between me and Mr. Sanctimonious, but nevertheless I followed him, looking as surly as possible as he led the way to the bathroom.

To make matters worse, he had to remind me to put a yellow sticker on my shirt before we went to breakfast. Again.

In the dining hall I wanted to veer away from Charles and sit elsewhere, but during my protested shower I'd come to the conclusion that I needed to keep a low profile until I'd figured a few more things out. And certainly until I could speak, which wouldn't be until Thursday. So I trotted along with him and sat at a table where two girls were seated. Not Jessica and Marie, this time. One of them was Monica Moon, and after Charles's obligatory grace I found out that the other was her roommate, Dawn Voorhees. Odd name, I remember thinking. I had yet to meet the famous Danielle who was Charles's nondate for the Friday night barbeque. I'd almost forgotten about her, but sitting with girls over breakfast reminded me. That, and the fact that Dawn brought it up.

“Do you have a companion for Friday yet, Charles?”

Awfully forward of her, I remember thinking. It hadn't occurred to me to think that of Jessica; don't know why not. But there was something pointed, or forceful, about Dawn.

“Yes, actually. Danielle has agreed to go with me. And you?”

“Nope.”

Nope? It was the most casual response I'd heard anyone give anyone else since I got here. And there was a note of pride buried someplace inside it. I found myself liking Dawn immensely. I looked at her. She winked.

Shit! This was cool. Maybe she was actually a real person. I looked at Charles to get his reaction, and he looked distinctly uncomfortable. Kind of like he really wanted to say something but didn't know how to follow
Nope
with any of his usual lingo. Like she didn't know how out of place her response had been, and he didn't know how to get her to see it.

Now, one of the rules that all residents are supposed to follow is not to jeopardize the silence of someone in SafeZone. So far the only people who'd spoken to me had done so like they were walking on eggshells, or by reminding me that I shouldn't respond. So Dawn surprised me again.

“How are you doin' so far, Taylor? I'll bet you've been able to form a lot of impressions in safety, since no one can ask you that and expect an answer!” She laughed, a deep-throated, honest laugh. “You started Monday?”

I nodded, delighted that she hadn't reminded me to limit my response to one head motion or another.

“Monica, too, like you heard last night. Say, that was some scene you two played out for us.” Her glance took Charles in, too, and despite the offhand nature of her words, her expression made it seem she'd been favorably impressed. She turned back to me. “You two should make great roommates, once you're able to talk. I'll bet you're going to give Charles a run for his money!” She chuckled.

Note to self: get Dawn alone after tomorrow and ask what she meant.

Dawn next launched into a story about someone she was working with in the library, but since I didn't know anyone else she was talking about, I just watched her. I loved the way her whole, big, round face was called into action when she wanted to emphasize something, which was most of the time; otherwise there would have been little about it to notice. And when she laughed her blue eyes squinted tight shut. Even her hair seemed to make some kind of statement. It was very light blonde, and it might have been pretty if she'd let it grow. But she didn't. It was very short, almost hacked. Like she'd decided pretty wasn't her style and she was forbidding her hair to dilute her true image. I was a little surprised they didn't make her wear a wig here. They had rules about Appropriate Appearance for girls and boys, and hacked hair on anyone was against the rules. Maybe they had her on orders to pray every night that her hair would grow quickly into a sweet bob, or something.

Monica looked pretty much the same as she had last night. Except her hair looked clean. Man, if I'd had Dawn for a roommate, I'd be a lot more cheerful. At least, I think so; was Dawn like this all the time, or did she turn into some kind of terror when she was alone with a silent impenitent?

At any rate, I was sorry when breakfast ended and all of us had to move on to our work assignments for the day. On the other hand, I'd get to see Sean again. What a bod. And Shorty, aka Nate, would be in the laundry room, too; he intrigued me, and I really wanted to know what was between him and Leland. Then I remembered I couldn't talk to anyone, and I nearly said “Shit” aloud. Double whammy if I had; speaking and profanity all at once.

Sean looked just as good as yesterday, and he even smiled when he saw me. I hadn't known Nate was right behind me, but I saw him as he passed Sean; evidently Nate didn't need instructions like I did. I glanced at him, hoping for some sign of recognition or acknowledgment, but he didn't even look in my direction. It hurt, so it made me angry. Fuck you, too, I hurled at him silently. Just one more turnabout for Shorty; consistency did not seem to be his strong suit. I turned back to Sean.

That morning I learned how to clean lint out of the dryers. Big whoop. Sean did his best to make it seem like it was some kind of honor; evidently they didn't trust just anybody with this task, which was a lot more than just emptying the lint catchers. I had to turn the machines off, unplug them, open up the fronts of the machines and dig in with this special plastic doohickus. So I spent most of my time on the floor, leaning into the innards of the machines, and I didn't get much chance to look for familiar faces. Even so, I did manage to locate Monica (easy target, I admit), and I even saw Sheldon folding towels—white ones, of course—at one of those white tables. He seemed pretty morose even from a distance.

My back was ready for a break when we all filed into that courtyard with the green fiberglass cloister. Feeling a little more independent today, I walked alone out onto the grassy area, into the sunshine, put my hands on the backs of my hips, and leaned back. Man, but crouching into those dryers was tough after a while. I decided to be really bold, and I got down on the grass and lay on my sore back, eyes closed, soaking in the sun.

Gradually I grew aware of the conversation a couple of guys were having not too far away. One of them sounded like Shorty, but I was damned if I was gonna look. So I just listened. They were going on about some controversy regarding the English interpretation of some wording in the Bible.

“It makes a huge difference!” the guy who wasn't Shorty said.

Shorty's voice, calm and patient, replied, “It makes none at all. So what if it should have been
rope
instead of
camel?”

“Look, it makes some sense to talk about how hard it would be to get a rope through the eye of a needle. At least that would be possible, even if you had to strip the rope down to fibers. To say it's a camel that can't go through is stupid!”

“It amounts to the same thing.” I could almost see Shorty shrug.

“Prove it. Make sense out of it.”

“Fact is, whether it's a rope or a camel, to get it through the eye of a needle you're going to have to tear it to shreds. And letting go of worldly goods tears most people to shreds. And the more you have, the harder it is. The more like the camel it seems. Don't you know that when the stock market crashes, lots of people lose lots of money, and many of them throw themselves out of windows? Maybe for a less wealthy person, it's more like a rope. I say that for people too tied to their wealth, it may as well be a camel.”

All was quiet for a stretch, and I thought, “A moment of silence for Shorty's spiritual intuition.” Then the other guy spoke again.

“Well, you know, there are other areas where people disagree on the interpretation. You're saying none of that matters?”

“You'd have to identify them. Then we can talk.”

“Aaaaahhh…” The guy made this noise of disgust, and it sounded like he got up and left. Then there was nothing. I barely squinted one eye open, just enough to see that it was Shorty. He got up and walked in the other direction from the guy who had been arguing with him, ignoring me, sauntering aimlessly further out into the yard. So I closed my eyes again. I wondered if this was what Shorty did. What he was known for here—interpreting scripture, applying it, arguing about it. His insights from Prayer Meeting last night were still with me. But that didn't mean I wasn't still angry with him. And anyway, did no one here talk about anything else? Just Bibles and barbeque?

When break ended, as I scrambled to my feet I noticed Shorty, hands in his pockets, shuffling back from the far end of the yard, where there was a small stretch of chain-link fence that gave a fractured view of the outside world. Wishing yourself out of this prison, Shorty? See any seagulls? His eyes were on the ground, and if he knew I was there he still didn't let on.

Praise the Lord, I didn't have to do any more dryer cleaning. Sean had me portioning out laundry detergent and fabric softener into little containers. Only so much was supposed to be used for any one load, you see, and evidently no one who was actually doing laundry could be trusted to measure it out. It was so boring I almost wished myself back at the dryers with my doohickus. I killed time by humming every hymn I could remember. Quietly.

I'd hoped to avoid Charles for lunch, but there he was, waiting for me. For some reason he led us to a table way over to the side of the dining hall. No one else sat with us, and we just chewed and stared. He didn't talk to me at all. What a prick. But—did I really want him to talk to me? What I wanted was Dawn talking to me. Even Shorty would have been interesting, even if kind of overfocused on the Holy Writ. He had ideas I'd never thought of, that's for sure.

I helped Sheldon, my SafeZone comrade, fold sheets after lunch. Two mutes, nodding and jerking our heads to indicate who should do what with which corner. We got into a kind of rhythm, though, and it was so in synch for a while that it was almost fun. Hypnotic. But then Sheldon accidentally dropped a corner, reached too quickly for it, and his whole end landed on the floor. I distinctly heard him say “Sh—!” before he clamped a hand over his mouth to stop the last two letters from sneaking out. He looked at me over the fingers that still gripped his offending mouth, absolute panic in his eyes. Before I could stop myself, I was on the floor.

I laughed and laughed, and then Sheldon started, and the two of us were rolling on the floor giving off these wordless howls, parts of the sheet under us. Sean came running over shouting, “Don't speak! Don't talk! Get up!” We were helpless, though, and suddenly Shorty was there. I'd say he was standing over us, but—well, he's so short. His quiet voice cut through the fading giggles.

“You have wasted soap, softener, water, electricity, and time. Not only your time, but the time of everyone who stopped working to watch you.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

I was on my feet in a split second. “Hey!” It wasn't what I wanted to say, but I was ready to say a lot more.

Sean was on me, his hands on my shoulders. “Quiet! Don't say anything else!”

Shorty never even turned around.

I didn't get to go out into the yard at break that afternoon. Instead I was hauled into the laundry office with Sean. He sat there across the desk from me, head in his hands. Finally he spoke.

“Taylor, I hate this. But I've had to report that you spoke. Everyone heard it.”